Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘He didn’t even take off his rings.’

‘I don’t think he wears rings.’

Avtar gave him a look, as if to ask whose side was he on? ‘We’ve tried to be friendly, but he’s ungrateful. I hate that. Have you ever even seen him smile? No. Exactly.’

As the train pulled in, he again reminded Randeep not to tell anyone where he’d gone.

‘If someone asks, say I’m at work. I’ll be back in a week.’

He nudged his rucksack into the centre of his back and climbed on board. Randeep waited on the platform, watching Avtar find a seat. He must be having money problems, he thought. Or worse money problems than the rest of them. It wasn’t something he ever spoke about. Randeep gave him a thumbs up, and then the train began to move and Avtar’s worried face slid slowly up the track.

It only took two days. Randeep had returned from delivering Narinderji her monthly payment — she’d barely let him through the front door — and was in the kitchen pouring himself some cereal. It was all they had in the cupboard. Tochi was sitting at the table, hunched over his roti-dhal. He hadn’t said a word to Randeep since he’d told everyone about the girl’s letter, and Randeep was beginning to wonder if he’d ever be forgiven. The beads were slapped aside and Gurpreet came in. He found a couple of empties in the bin and managed to shake a few drops into his mouth. Then he threw them back down.

‘Pour me some,’ he said to Randeep.

‘There’s no milk, though.’

Gurpreet nodded, wiping his perpetually runny nose with the back of his hand. Randeep handed him a bowl and they ate standing against the counter.

‘Where’s your friend?’ Gurpreet asked Randeep.

‘Work.’

‘Not seen him for a few days.’

‘He’s busy.’

‘He used to talk about his exams. When are they again?’

Randeep chewed his cereal, playing for time. ‘I’m not sure.’

Gurpreet nodded. ‘Is he still at the chip shop?’ And there was something about the way he said this. Less an enquiry, more a confirmation.

Randeep looked to Tochi. ‘He’s still at the chip shop.’

Tochi raked back his chair, harshly, and hurried into his jacket. Gurpreet threw his bowl into the sink, charging forward, grabbing Tochi by the collar and yanking him back.

‘Bhanchod chamaar. It’s time you learned your place.’

He took Gurpreet’s legs from under him and slammed him onto the table, pinning him there with a forearm to the throat. Gurpreet thrashed. He made strangulated sounds. A knife appeared in Tochi’s hand, held high above his shoulder. He trained it on the space below Gurpreet’s turban.

‘Say that again and I’ll slice your fucking eyes open.’

At the chips-and-chicken joint, a girl with hair the colour of hay looked up from behind the counter. She asked Tochi something in English.

‘Foreman. Please,’ he added, as if remembering.

She stared for a few seconds, her brow contracting, then sloped off into the kitchen and said something in English again. A man appeared, big, with strong, fat arms that he was wiping down. He nodded up at Tochi. ‘Ki?’

‘I need work.’

‘My name’s Malkeet. Bhaji to shits like you.’

Tochi adjusted: ‘I need work, bhaji.’

‘Welcome to the world. Nothing here.’

‘Wait. Please.’

Malkeet waited.

‘I’ll work for less than the one that’s gone to London.’

He seemed amused by this. ‘That takes guts.’

A customer entered and Malkeet told Tochi to go outside and come round the back. When he made it round, Malkeet was already in the doorway, pointedly keeping Tochi standing outside. Blue plastic crates were stacked against the wall to Tochi’s left, watery blood pooled across their bottoms. Chicken, he made out, from the pictures if not the words.

‘What’s your status?’

‘Fauji.’

‘How long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Now, now.’

‘Two years.’

Malkeet thought on this. ‘Well, I suppose it is true: you are cheaper than scooters. Always wanting time off for this or that exam.’ He said this loudly, airily, and the desi guy in the kitchen banged his fryer against the rim and flounced off into the shop. Malkeet chortled.

‘You’ll make enemies.’

Tochi said that was nothing new.

Randeep paced the room, mattress to wardrobe, wardrobe to mattress. Sometimes he paused at the window, but it was getting too dark to see much down the road. He put his head to the wardrobe. He might not have. He might not have stolen the job. The boss might not even have given it to him. Anyway, he had nothing to feel bad about. Even if he had wanted to make it up to Tochi, he hadn’t said anything he shouldn’t have. Had he? Outside, the gate opened, hinges screeching. Randeep went to the window — it was him — and rushed out of the door, meeting Tochi halfway down the stairs.

‘You didn’t?’

Tochi pushed past, carrying on into their room.

‘I’ve told bhaji. I’ve called him.’

‘Good.’ He took his holdall from the wardrobe and began to stuff it with his clothes.

‘What are you doing? Where you going?’

‘To the flat.’

‘The empty one?’

Tochi nodded. It was time to leave. He zipped up the holdall and slung it on. ‘If your friend asks, tell him. I don’t want him to think I ran away.’

‘You can’t do this,’ Randeep said, following him onto the landing. Then: ‘I saw your scars.’

Tochi halted. He didn’t turn round. Then he went down the stairs and out the front door.

Some students got up and left the hall long before the invigilator instructed everyone to put down their pens. Avtar never did. It would only draw attention, especially as he sat near the front and the exit was right at the back. He waited, listening to the giant clock, seeing shapes in the tiles of the parquet floor. Once or twice he paged through the booklet again. It made no difference. It was all beyond him.

Today was his fourth exam — two more to go. Head down, folder to his chest, he burrowed through the hordes of students comparing answers in the corridor. Usually he went to Cheemaji’s office. Not this time. He cut across the car park, past the library and out of the college grounds. He went under the roundabout that had once so confounded him and used Cheemaji’s travelcard to take the Tube to Kings Cross. It had been deliberate, suggesting somewhere public, and this was the only place in London he really knew.

He waited near the ticket office and when the other two showed up they all moved to an empty table outside a coffee shop. The nephews took teas. Avtar shook his head.

‘Sure?’ Bal said.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Fair enough. ’S good of you to meet us here,’ he went on. ‘Saves us a trip up north for once.’

‘I was here anyway.’

‘For your exams. You said.’

Avtar reached into his shoes and pushed across the table a small roll of notes. ‘It’s not enough.’

‘I can see that.’

‘I’ll make it up next month.’

The teas arrived. The waiter left.

‘Is that why you wanted to meet here?’ The nephews looked at each other, smiled. ‘Did you think we’d play nasty?’

‘I’ve said I’ll make it up next month.’

‘Let’s go for a walk.’

Avtar didn’t move.

Bal swiped up the money and put it in his pocket. ‘Get up. We don’t have long.’

They took him into the toilets where Bal covered Avtar’s face with a hood and held his mouth under a running tap. The other nephew kept watch.

‘Stop taking the fucking piss,’ Bal said, whacking up the water pressure. ‘If you take the money — if you accept the money — then pay it the fuck back, yeah? Isn’t rocket science, is it?’